His Worst Critic
by dumpling47
Summary: One-shot. Sherlock is convinced that he isn't physically attractive, and John is determined to set the record straight. Fluffy Johnlock.


_**Because who would've ever thought that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, would be hypercritical of his appearance ... ?**_

_**WARNING**__**: major fluff alert!**_

* * *

It was a typical night at Baker Street. John and Sherlock were in rather loving moods, though, and were (perhaps in a very juvenile manner) listing off the things they liked best about each other. Sherlock had already gone, explaining to John that he loved his loyalty, his intelligence, his bravery, his eyes, the fact that he wore such ludicrous jumpers (it was endearing), and so on and so forth. Now it was John's turn.

"Well, naturally I'm super freaking attracted to how smart you are, even though it can be rather intimidating sometimes, and the fact that you have a taste for adventure, and your violin-playing skills, and, well - you're absolutely gorgeous, as if that needs mentioning."

Sherlock looked rather surprised. "You - you think I'm - _gorgeous_?"

"Well, obviously!" John said with a laugh.

Sherlock looked very perplexed. "I do hope you're seeing your eye doctor regularly, John."

"What the hell are you implying?" John exclaimed.

"In case you hadn't observed, John, I am perhaps the most physically flawed human being in all of London. My eyes are disproportionately small to my mouth. My eyebrows are too pale, compared to my hair - that of which is subsequently too dark, compared to my skin tone. I'm too scrawny. My irises are a rather alarming shade of green. Need I go on?" Sherlock demanded, out of breath.

John sat there in stunned silence for some moments.

"Sherlock Holmes," he asked, unable to believe what he'd heard, "Is that truly how you see yourself?"

"Those are the facts," Sherlock said simply.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John muttered. "For someone so observant, you can really talk yourself into some completely ridiculous shit, you know that?" He paused, observing his friend. "I don't even understand, Sherlock. You - perhaps the most beautiful person I've ever laid eyes on - with low self-esteem?"

"It's not a matter of self-esteem," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm simply stating what's there."

John groaned. "No one sees themselves in an accurate light, or hadn't you heard? Let me tell you something, Sherlock - your lips are full and luscious, and your eyebrows are wispy and therefore absolutely adorable. I love your hair - it contrasts so nicely and so strikingly with your skin. I like you thin, though I do wish you'd allow yourself to eat every once in awhile. And your eyes - for God's sake, Sherlock, sometimes I honestly try to avoid making eye contact with you, because I feel like I'm drowning!"

"Drowning in my eyes," Sherlock scoffed. "I never heard something so out of a greeting card in all my life."

"Well, dammit, it's true!" John exclaimed. "What, do you think I'm just attracted to you for your smarts?"

"Er - that's what I assumed -"

"Hell, no." John laughed. "Not just that. Why do you think I'm always begging for sex? Why do you think I take every opportunity possible to touch you - to hold you? It's not because I think you're ugly, or even remotely average, for that matter."

Sherlock turned an impossibly adorable shade of scarlet. "Well ..." he said, looking shy.

"And quite honestly, if you weren't aware of how physically perfect you were before, then I haven't been doing my job as a boyfriend," John said, ashamed of himself. "I need to make you aware. I can't have you walking through life thinking you're some ugly sod when, for God's sake, you look like a Greek god or something."

"Greeting. Card." Sherlock coughed the words out in an obvious manner.

"Shaddup, Sherlock," John said, swatting him on the head. "Now come on, let's go upstairs, shall we?"

* * *

Just before bed, Sherlock went to the loo and observed himself in the mirror, trying his best not to be critical. He occasionally did this - analyzed himself, trying to get an idea about himself physically. As much as he detested his general makeup, he had to admit, it was always a fascinating study.

He stripped down, observing the curve of his back, the strength in his slender muscles. Perhaps he _was_ too critical. Maybe John was right. Maybe he had to lay off himself a little bit - because really, why should John, the one he trusted most, find him the opposite of hideous - unless that were, in fact, what he was?

Sherlock smiled cynically to himself, watching those big lips of his curve upward.

Maybe - just maybe - John Watson was on to something.

* * *

After a night spent together, John had to wake up early to get to work. Sherlock woke late, finding a note taped to John's pillow.

_Good morning, beautiful,_ it read, _I just wanted to make sure I called you that today. And everyday, really. Hope you slept well. There's some groceries on the counter downstairs, if you can actually be bothered to eat anything. Love you. xx John_

Sherlock read and re-read the note several times over, his heart swelling with gratitude. He tucked it in his pocket and proceeded downstairs.

_Good morning, beautiful._

It wasn't just flattery, Sherlock knew that. John meant every word.

Sherlock decided, after all, to eat, toasting to John's love and honesty. It was the least he could do.


End file.
